Just so you know, the sun is red today.
There’s smoke all above Seattle, and it’s 90 degrees.
Before I even realized it, I picked a black shirt from my dresser.
I passed a man on the street,
his eyes were yellow as the sun should be.
Two words trickled out the ravines in his lips:
orange juice.
Barb shuffled to the store counter, ringing up the juice,
her head bald and bright as the sun should be.
Looking into my two muddled white stars
she asked how I was doing today.
I think death must not have known what you inspired
the smell of baking bread
my wife’s each planted step
a nephew that could catch you grinning.
And death must feel ashamed, seeing the sun today.